I Died A Little

That title has EMO POST written all over it, doesn't it? Well, that's really not my style, and now is no exception. My style is more akin to the "Drive by your arch nemesis's trailer home in a Volkswagen Beetle from the 60's with the backseat full of dog crap that you've been saving for three months mainly for the purpose of throwing at that girl you've always liked in order to finally show her how you feel (See previous post "How to Get a Date") but have instead decided to use towards the further degradation of your enemy's already destitute living situation" style. You know me.

This post... is about a dream I had. Not a profound one about the rights of the black man, nor one that evokes the profound nature of the essence which pervades the existential construct of humanity or something, NO... However, in this dream, I did die.

Admittedly, I may be about to fill in some of the blank areas that I have forgotten with some of my own conscious dramatizations, and the same goes for the boring parts too. But hey, my only thought is to entertain you. You, the gentle reader, who by this time is probably limited to people named Paul Tino. (Census statistics indicate that there are over 500 Paul Tinos in the United States. That's over 500 strong for Daltonious Is Wrong and He Sucks!)

On with the dream.

I am standing in an isle at Safeway, perusing the cereal selection. They only have one variety available... Cinnamon Toast Crunch. My fucking favorite. I am reaching... reaching for a box of that sugar coated magnificence.... it's like crack that you eat out of a bowl instead of smoke from one. Hey sorry if crack pipes don't actually have bowls, I apologize for never having smoked crack or wikipedia-ed the process for doing so. But anyway....

I am just about to grasp the box when a man bursts into the store. He has a crazed look in his eye, an eye that has "I drive around in a VW bug full of dog crap and throw it at people's trailer homes" written all over it. Somehow. He also happens to be toting some kind of automatic rifle, perhaps an AK-47 or an M16. Those are the ones I know. Anyway, he begins shooting people as he sees them. He sees me. He fires five or six rounds into my chest. I'm glad I didn't waste money on that boob job. HAR, I AM A MAN I DON'T HAVE BOOBS.

Anywho, I don't feel any pain. Too manly. I just fall, fall backwards into that heaven of sugar toasted wonder. Bloody boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch rain down from the sky with my falling body. I hit the tiled floor, grasping one final package. I lie there, bleeding out. Some involved citizens, bunkered behind a checkout counter, reach over and somehow manage to drag me back to their hiding space.

"We're losing him," I hear someone say. I begin to drift away. I see him floating above me. It's that chef from the cereal box. Does that guy have a name? Perhaps not, but neither does God. "You've found me." he says. "Come home."

Lord, do I like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I shuffle off this mortal coil, and awaken to life as usual. I have eggs for breakfast.